Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/403

Rh We thank Thee for the love divine

Made real in every saint of Thine;

That boundless love itself that gives

In service to each soul that lives.

We thank Thee for the word of might

The Spirit spake in darkest night;

Spake through the trumpet voices loud

Of prophets at Thy throne who bowed.

Eternal Soul, our souls keep pure,

That like Thy saints we may endure;

Forever through Thy servants, Lord,

Send Thou Thy light, Thy love, Thy word.

THE VALLEY OF LIFE

I was a child joyfully I ran, hand claspt in hand, now with my mother, now with my father, or with younger, blithe companions, now in sunlight, now in shadow and dread, through the strange new Valley of Life.

Sometimes on the high-road, then over the fields and meadows, or through the solemn forests; sometimes along the happy brook-side, listening to its music or the clamor of the falls, as the pleasant waters hurried or grew still, in the winding way down the Valley of Life.

And as we moved along, hand claspt in hand, sometimes the hand-clasp was broken, and I, a happy child, ran swiftly aside from the path to gather flower or fruit or get sight of a singing bird; or to lean down and pluck a pearly stone from under the lapping waves; or climbed a tree and swayed, shouting, on its waving boughs—then returning to the clasp of loving hands, and so passing on and on down the opening Valley of Life.